Mark slipped into the hut well after dark, again spending long hours working on the cabin. "Good evening." He headed straight for a towel and fresh pantaloons.
She looked up from where she laid Charles down to sleep. "Hello." Her heart sped up as memories of Grandmama's words flashed.
"Did you have a nice afternoon?" He fished the soap out of a basket.
"We did. Sunflower is so nice, and her daughter is only a bit older than Charles. He liked to stare at her while she practiced walking." She smiled, but he continued to keep his eyes on hunting for a rag. "How was your afternoon?"
"I got the outer wall up on the front first story of the cabin." His words came out weary, as if all the manual labor and looming deadline of winter had begun to take a toll on him. "I'm going to wash." Then he slipped out.
The smile faded. A glance under the cot revealed the crutches were gone. She followed him out.
Stopping in surprise, she blinked to see him sitting outside the hut with the prosthesis propped beside him. Even the firelight couldn't mask the red irritation at the end of his leg from the prosthetic.
He glanced up with a dark glare.
Before she could kneel to talk, he struggled up on the crutches like it was a weakness to be caught without the prosthesis. Apparently he hadn't thought about how he'd carry everything on crutches because he stared down at the items. "Goddammit," he whispered at being trapped.
Without a word, she slipped inside and returned with a satchel. With all the items stacked in the bag, she slipped the strap over his head and one shoulder.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"I'm not going to lecture you about needing to build up your skin's tolerance before wearing the prosthesis all day - you're a physician and know that. But I will say that in a year, no one will remember if you were stubborn...but the babies and I will always remember if you died because you chose stubbornness over us." She stroked his trim beard. "We count on you to take care of your leg. You know that I wish you'd let me help so it isn't such a burden."
"If you had a man like Bear, there wouldn't be burdens," he snapped.
A soft smile tugged. "There are always burdens. Grandmama said something today, and it made me realize that I need friends so I have others to go to when there's a problem instead of putting all the burden on you - "
He stared a moment and then dropped his gaze. "A good husband should shoulder his wife's burdens."
"No, that is what Anna taught you. This doesn't mean I don't need you. Having a woman to discuss things with gives a different perspective than a man. And you should foster friendships too. I think it will make our marriage stronger to not be each other's sole support system."
He seemed to chew on that.
"Furthermore - "
"There's more." It came out as a statement, and not enthusiastic at that.
"Yes. Furthermore, I'm your wife, and I let you help me nearly daily try to avoid mastitis. You can certainly suck it up and accept help with your leg. It does not make you less of a husband, father or man, so you will cease this nonsense."
One black eyebrow rose in a perfect, aristocratic arc of challenge. Even in the moonlight, a flush of anger rose up his neck. "Is that so? I suppose you'll dare to say that there's no need to build you a cabin or that you aren't ashamed your husband can't 'keep up' with the other men - "
She silenced him with a kiss. Cupping his jaw in her hands, she pulled back just enough to see his surprised expression. "If you insist that I should be ashamed of you for your leg, then I have all rights to insist that you should be ashamed of a half-breed, Injun wife."
"Do not call yourself that," he hissed and jerked her wrists down, holding tight. Sparks of rage shot from his gaze, as his eyes darted back and forth to glare into each of hers.
"That's my point, Mark," she said softly. "Maybe it's time to stop listening to others and start believing each other."
He dropped her wrists.
Charles's wail broke the silence.
With one last glance, she left.
Picking up Charles, she walked him inside the hut. "Are you too hot, love? You're all sweaty. It's a hot night, isn't it? Shhhh."
The door flap pulled back and Mark stood there on the crutches. "Come down to the stream. You both need to cool off." He held out a hand.
Grabbing towels, she walked beside Mark.
Charles looked around in curiosity at a howl echoing in the mountains.
"Do you hear that, my boy? That's a wolf."
Charles's big gray eyes fixated on Mark hobbling alongside on crutches.
"Keep an eye out. We must protect the womenfolk." He gave a small smile to Charles.
The babe rested his head on her shoulder and chewed on the neckline of her dress.
"Are you getting another tooth? All he's wanted to do today is chew." She eased the dress away from him, enjoying this moment of peace together as a family.
Mark slipped off the satchel at the embankment and sat. Taking Charles in his lap, he darted a finger in the little mouth. "Ouch!" His hand jerked out. "I'd say two teeth are almost through. I've a new hide rag you can chew when we get home, my boy." Then he pulled off his pantaloons before removing the prosthesis straps.
She sat and freed Charles of his clothes. Squeals of excitement pierced the night air, and the babe tried to crawl away.
When her dress tugged from the left, she glanced at Mark.
"Bathe with me," he said in a husky tone and pulled off her dress.
Shame didn't cloud his eyes that night.
Shots fired. Screams echoed. Smoke filled the air.
Mark whipped out of bed and rustled in the dark.
It must be nearly morning. She scurried to him, her heart slamming at the violent awakening. The haze of just a couple hours of sleep only added to the confusion of what was happening.
Mark had the prosthesis on in record time.
Charles wailed from his pallet.
"Keep him quiet," Mark breathed and snatched up the baby before she had time to react. Then Mark grabbed her hand.
Shouts of English.
Her heartbeat stumbled. Soldiers?
One glance at Mark's face confirmed the nightmare - soldiers had come to round up or slaughter the Natives.
"Hide in the field grasses and make your way to the woods," he whispered.
"But Grandfath - "
"Do it," he hissed and locked eyes for a split moment. That moment was all it took to read the terror in his eyes - terror that this was a massacre. He pulled her out of the hut.
Huts burned across the landscape, the painful heat of the fire tride to blister flesh. Soldiers on horses trampled fallen friends. Blood bathed the grasses. Mutilated bodies were like logs fallen at every turn. Charles's screams couldn't be heard over the dozens of others. This...this was hell.
Mark used the smoke to hide as he pulled her through the tribe that now was like upturned burial grounds.
Grandmama and Grandfather were nowhere in sight.
At the edge of the tribe, Mark shoved her and Charles down hard to the ground in the field. Suddenly, he was gone running in the opposite direction.
"Shoot him!" A soldier yelled.
She rolled over, holding a hand over Charles's wails to keep from being discovered, and peeked above the waist-high grasses.
Mark stood not far away and raised his hands. Three soldiers surrounded him with guns aimed.
Then it dawned - Mark had seen them coming and had made himself the diversion.
"I'm English," Mark stated.
The soldiers stilled. Apparently they thought twice about shooting a white man. And Mark knew it.
One of them moved closer. "His eyes are blue. Why are you here with these heathens?"
She moved to crawl through the grass, but more horse hooves trembled the ground.
Pain tore through her scalp, suddenly being hauled up by the hair. A scream of agony ripped out as she grabbed her hair with one hand to keep it from tearing out and clutched to hold onto Charles with her other. Warmth trickled down the back of her neck.
"No!" Mark yelled.
The four soldiers near Mark aimed guns at him, and the three surrounding her pulled out knives.
"She's my woman!" Mark blurted. "I have slave papers! I came across these lands and bought her. The child is mine - I bought her to raise him after my wife died."
"Looks like that's not all you've done with her," one of the men snickered and eyed the small swell of her belly. "Take the baby to him."
A drop of warm blood inched down her shoulder, and terrible pain throbbed at the back of her head.
One of the soldiers ripped Charles from her arms, jerking her head and a scream of pain from her lips.
"She's my property!" The panic in Mark's voice escalated as he took Charles and inched steps closer.
The leader got off his horse and stepped up to her. "Filthy heathen carries your bastard, you mean." He removed the cigar from his mouth and tapped it. Ashes fluttered to the ground, revealing the burning red end. It slowly came closer and closer, the guards holding her arms and another clamping a hand around her jaw to keep her head immobilized. The leader smiled as the red hot end approached her cheek.
"No!" Mark charged and tackled the leader.
A battle cry filled the air and the ground trembled from hundreds of hooves.
Everyone froze.
Hundreds of buffalo ran over the hill, heading straight for the tribe. Wolf, Grandfather and Bear rode behind on horses, steering the herd.
Mark used the distraction and grabbed her hand, running toward the soldiers with the guns.
Oh god, Charles. Mark must've left him in the grasses.
Guns fired. Chaos erupted. The boom of hooves against the earth drowned out all other noise. Mark jerked her down and curled up on top of her and Charles as buffalo stampered and jumped over him.
An odd pain radiated in her chest.
The thunder gradually quieted. The ground stilled.
Mark sat up and looked down at her. His face paled sheet white. "Tiger! She's been shot!"
She blinked as everything came into focus and looked around. An infirmary. Moans of agony filled the small clinic of five beds.
Grandfather and an older man wearing a stethoscope moved about attending to the injured Natives scattered on the floor too.
"Sweetheart." Mark's voice. He hurried over from where he was attending to the person in bed to the right, and took her hand. "How do you feel?"
"Tingly."
"That's the anesthesia wearing off. You were shot, and we had to do surgery to get the bullet out. It was against your rib, so you might have a rib fracture too."
"Babe?" It was hard to put coherent thoughts together.
"Charles is alright, and the babe seems sound. Can you breathe alright?" He set a stethoscope to her chest.
"Grandmama?"
"Right here." The voice came from the right.
Grandmama laid in bed, pale but smiling. She reached out a hand and took hers.
"We found her inside a burning hut. She has some burns, but she should make a full recovery." Mark moved the stethoscope. "Can you take a deep breath? Go slow in case your rib is cracked."
She breathed in until it began to hurt...in her breast.
"Good, sweetheart."
With a frown, she looked down to see a bandage over her breasts.
He scooted closer and spoke quietly. "The bullet went through your breast. I think the scar tissue helped keep it from reaching your rib." Sadness filled his eyes. "While I was in there, I found the spot that keeps getting mastitis. It was a milk duct damaged from the attack. Mastitis can be fatal, and it's almost every day that we're trying to battle it."
"How bad?" She whispered as he blurred behind tears. She pulled up the sheet to her chin.
His hand caught hers. "You shouldn't be able to tell much of a difference through clothes." Then he leaned down and kissed away the tears. "You're beautiful to me no matter what. I just want you healthy."
That was a gentle way of saying more deformity. "But you'll know." Her lip quivered.
"Just like you know that three-quarters of my leg is missing," he whispered. "I'll only worship you more." Then he pressed a kiss to her brow.
Such a terrible headache set in as the numbness wore off. She reached up. A bandage wrapped around hER head.
Mark looked on the verge of losing his stomach and eased her hand away. "You have some stitches where your scalp tore from where they pulled your hair. The scar will be hidden in your hair." Tears welled in his eyes. "I'm so sorry I didn't protect you."
"You did," she whispered. It grew impossible to stay awake.
"Right now you need to rest."
That evening, she looked around the clinic that held all that was left of the tribe. Two more beds had been freed after grave injuries had claimed their victims.
Mark came over with a bowl of stew and Charles.
Grandfather sat on the edge of Grandmama's bed with a bowl and helped Grandmama eat.
He helped her recline higher. The movement caused a throbbing headache. "Where do we stay?"
Mark gave Charles a piece of the meat to chew on and then helped her situate to eat.
Grandfather exchanged a glance with Mark. "I'm going to stay here during the days to care for you two while Mark works on finishing the roof. The inside walls are just bones, but it will be shelter enough for now."
"What about the others?" Less than a dozen of the tribe remained.
"Bear is going to lead them to another tribe north," Mark answered.
"But we cannot stay here. They will be back," Grandmama added.
"Out East they were not as familiar with the looks of our people." Grandfather held her gaze. "Mark has an established following of patients at the lumberyard."
Her eyes flew to him. "The lumberyard? But you hated it - " Pain exploded through her head at that outburst.
"Enough," Mark said firmly and set a cold compress over her brow. "We will move back once you and your grandmother are strong enough." One of the men began moaning in pain, so Mark handed Charles to Grandfather and headed over.
She looked to them, gasping in a breath as the back of her tender head rubbed against the pillow. Squinting at Grandfather, she held his eyes. "His confidence suffered so much there. He can't go back - "
Grandfather set a hand over her bare arm. "He wired the lumberyard. The physician there isn't skilled, and the man who was to take your house passed away. The house is built and empty, and Mark can build his own practice on the outskirts of the lumberyard."
"But - "
"Granddaughter, he has had time to adjust to the amputation and find himself. This is the best chance for all of us."
She looked to Grandmama, who was already asleep. Going back to where the amputation had begun didn't seem like a good idea. Mark didn't need to go back to dealing with Mr. Price, either.
"It hurts to straighten," she panted the next day and clutched his hand.
"Let your shoulders hunch for a few days. You have a delicate frame, so there wasn't much there to work with. It won't hurt in a few days for the skin to stretch." He loaned her a pair of his pants and a shirt to avoid confining clothes yet.
She gave him a look as he helped her shuffle out to the porch to sit in the sun for a bit. "You're saying I'm not well endowed." Stumbling a step, she gasped in pain when her arm jerked trying to hold onto him tighter. The stumble jerked the headache awake again too.
"Let me worry about catching you." He held tight about the waist. "It must be the babe leaving you this dizzy - you've never reacted like this to anesthesia."
"She's telling you that we didn't want surgery." Wiping away the tears of pain, she nodded to keep going to the rocking chair he'd set out on the porch of the infirmary.
"I'll carry you back inside. We just need you to move around a bit so you don't get blood clots." Once she sat, he fussed and made her comfortable.
A townswoman approached with some kind of dish in her hands.
Mark shot to his feet and put himself between them.
"I'm Mrs. Barnes, the merchant's wife. I run a restaurant on the other side of town. You're Dr. Johnson?" She glanced at Mark's leather pants and bare chest, her cheeks a bit red. "I heard of the attack. I made a casserole to get folks well."
Mark stepped forward and accepted the dish. "Thank you. We ran out of food rations last night."
The stew - Mark and Grandfather hadn't eaten but given their portions to her, Charles and Grandmama.
"I don't know much about the Injun folks, but they've never caused us trouble. Doesn't seem like the neighborly thing to do to not lend a God-helping hand in a time of need."
"Native American. We appreciate it, ma'm," he said, adopting the American way of address. Curiously, he identified himself with the 'Injun folks.'
"You look tired. Mrs. Atwood, the blacksmith's wife, and I have helped the doctor attend to the ill and injured during mining accidents. Do you and the doctor need help?"
His shoulders seemed to sag in relief. "That would be wonderful. The three of us can't keep up with everyone's round-the-clock care. Let me grab the doctor and my grandfather-in-law." He turned and set a hand on her shoulder. "I'll be right back. Mrs. Barns. My wife," he stated, giving quick introductions.
Awkward silence fell when Mark disappeared inside. Mrs. Barnes openly stared. "Are you an Injun? You don't quite look like the others."
Her face burned in embarrassment. "Half."
"Oh."
Mark stepped out with the doctor and Grandfather, who took over discussion with Mrs. Barnes while he attended to her.
The townspeople readily welcomed Mark as an assisting physician. Grandfather and the rest of the tribe were met with tolerance. Over the next hours, hushed word spread that the womenfolk weren't allowed to touch the 'wild, heathen' men. Mark seemed too busy to notice, or perhaps attributed it to propriety.
When Mark asked Mrs. Barnes to help take her to the surgery room to change the bandage, the woman hesitated for a moment before touching her hand.
"I'm fine," she insisted to Mark.
"You're pale and unsteady. My leg aches, and I don't trust it to carry you." He helped her stand.
Vision faded and her knees buckled.
"Tanya!" He grabbed the hospital bed headboard and shifted for a slow fall onto the bed to avoid tearing the stitches.
"Oh goodness!" Mrs. Barnes cried in the distance.
"Tanya? Tanya?"
Blinking hard made spots of vision return. Then a rancid smell shot everything into focus.
Mrs. Barnes waved smelling salts under her nose. "There. Goodness, you gave Dr. Johnson a scare." The woman looked shaken herself.
"Mrs. Barnes, create a path to surgery. Tanya, I'm checking to make sure the babe is still sound."
The woman followed as he laid her on the surgery table. "Did you give her the medicine in the brown bottle? With the white label?"
"Yes, she had surgery yesterday." He palpated the baby through her clothes.
"Injuns can't tolerate that kind."
His head whipped around to Mrs. Barnes. "What?"
"The doctor uses that one on us. He uses the white one on Injuns because they get so dizzy. She doesn't exactly look Injun, so maybe Doc didn't realize."
"What other reaction does it cause?" He began a full exam.
"I think just dizziness. Should I get the Doc?"
"Yes."
"The babe." Gulping in air only helped marginally to hold in the tears as panic welled.
"I know. She'll be alright." His demeanor came off so calm and professional - the manner that he only took on when trying to not show his fear. "I need you to stay calm so the babe gets enough air. Deep breaths." He slipped the stethoscope under the shirt and listened to the babe. "Her heart rate is good."
The town physician hurried in with a glass of blue liquid just as Mark finished a full exam of the babe. "I thought you knew."
"I know nothing of Native American reactions. What are you giving?" He whipped around and hovered as they talked and she drank the liquid.
"Mrs. Johnson, you have to tell us if you start to have any muscle weakness."
"Why would she have muscle weakness?" Mark pounced.
"It's a side effect of the anesthesia that can take a few days to set in. This is the antedote that should kick in before full body paralysis."
"What?!"
Grandfather rushed in with other herbs. "These will help stop early labor."
"Labor?! Somebody tell me what the hell kind of reaction is happening!" Mark looked ready to kill someone.
"We'll tell you once we get her through this. You'll be alright," Grandfather promised. "It might make you sleepy, but it's safe for the babe."
She grabbed Mark's hand as she took the herbs.
He leaned over the table and stroked her hair. "You'll both be fine, sweetheart."
"Mmaaarr..." His name refused to form minutes later.
"That's normal. It'll wear off in a bit. You just sleep through it," Grandfather promised. "Her reflexes will slow, but her blood pressure will stabilize. This will prevent labor from trying to start from the antidote," he whispered to Mark.
That was the last thing remembered.
"My wife was almost tortured and killed. We are not staying." Mark's harsh hiss cut through the drugged haze. "As soon as she's well, we're going back East."
East at the lumberyard was were he'd lost his independence and himself. It was where life with him had threatened to fall apart. It was where the end of everything perfect waited for destruction. Her hand tightened around the strong, familiar fingers still holding hers. "No," she whispered and forced her eyes open.
Mark came into focus, looking a decade older in the surgery room than when she'd fallen asleep. "Shhh, rest."
"We can't keep moving. This is home."
He ran a hand over his face. "We'll talk about this when you're feeling better." He looked at Grandfather, who walked over with a glass of water. The moment Grandfather was at her side, Mark walked out the back door. Heaving could be heard.
"We think the headaches were partly due to a bulging hematoma on your scalp at the incision. Mark drained it while you were sleeping." He set a hand on her arm, his eyes wet with emotion. "He's upset. Your scalp tore away from your skull. He gave you a transfusion yesterday because of the blood loss." A tear rolled down his weathered cheek. "He's sickened and scared because I think they intended to scalp you. None of it will show once healed, but it looks very terrible right now."
Resting a hand over her belly, she drew a steadying breath. "The babe is alright, though?"
He nodded.
"How is the headache?" Mark asked the next morning and unwrapped her head in the privacy of the surgery room.
"It's more tolerable." Biting her lip in embarrassment, her fingers curled around the lip of the exam table as he tossed the bandages in the trash.
Silence. He stood behind and very gently fingered her scalp. His fingers easily reached. "Is it too painful anymore?"
"Did you cut my hair?" The words came out tiny and self-conscious.
Gentle lips reached around and brushed a kiss over her cheek. "An infection so close to the brain is dangerous. I only cut what I had to. It will grow back. In the meantime, we can fix your hair so it won't show."
"Can I see?"
"It's better to wait until next week once the sutures are out and it's healed a bit more." He picked up a fresh gauze on the tray to the left and dabbed. "It's a bit red here. I'll pack a poultice on it today to prevent infection. Let me get your grandfather to help because I need another hand."
When he left, she grabbed the silver tray and a medical instrument to use as mirrors.
He had swept aside the hair cascading down from the top of her head. At the back middle of her scalp, a jagged black map of sutures, in an odd horseshoe shape, wove through shaved hair. An area the size of two palms had been shaved. Blood red and blue bruises covered a large lump where the tissue had swelled from being ripped from the skull.
Heavy footsteps entered the room. "Tanya." His voice croaked. "It's only temporary." His heavy tread hurried around the table, and he lowered her hands. "Look at me."
Tears blurred him. "I want to see how bad my breast looks."
"Fine, but listen to me first." He set aside the tray and instrument to take her hands in his. "Your hair will hide the scars. This is only for a few weeks until your hair grows back. I need you to believe me that I don't care about your scalp or breast scars." His voice broke, and he cupped her face in his hands.
Her face crumpled as she put her good arm around his neck to pull him closer for a hug. When she let go, he gingerly unbandaged the surgical site.
A month later, he stood up on the prosthesis in the bedroom of their home on the outskirts of the lumberyard. It was ironic that it wasn't him who suffered self-confidence this time, but herself.
She sat up in bed after helping him with his leg, just like every morning the past week since arriving. Just like every morning, she remained silent as he helped with the stretches to aid in arm mobility from the worsened scar.
As a surgeon, he'd done a beautiful job with the reconstruction and little tissue he'd had to work with. As a husband, he'd made a decision for her, although it was his legal right, to choose further deformity over dealing with daily mastitis risk. The plump breast pad insert the seamstress had made in England no longer hid the gap in the proper American blouses. At least the Native American deerskins had been thick enough to not need the breast prosethesis. Hatred for the two blouses in the closet grew blacker each day.
So lost in the daydream was she that the feel of a bare hand cupping the deformity startled awake anger and disgust. Wiout even thinking, she slapped the intruding hand.
Breath caught in her throat and her eyes widened as they flew to his. Her hand still stung from delivering the instinctual reprimand.
His startled blue eyes held hers as he snatched his hands away. Confusion and then guilt shrouded his gaze as he turned away and walked over to the dresser. He kept his back to her as he buttoned up his shirt. Only the slight tremor in his hands revealed how much her reaction had shocked and stung him.
Pulling the nightgown closed in shame, she swallowed hard in surprise to see her own hands shaking. "I'm sorry. I was daydreaming, and your touch frightened me."
Smoothing down his neckcollar, he quietly replied without turning. "That was a reaction of hatred, not fright." He drew a shaky breath and turned, his eyes full of pain, anger, guilt and grief. "Say it," he commanded. "We both know you think it, so be goddamn honest with me and say it!"
She got up and grabbed her shawl to leave the room, emotions again shutting down to keep out the darkness.
"Yes, walk away, just like you've been doing since you saw what I had to do to you! Goddamn shut me out because God forbid you be human and admit you hate me for it!"
Her face crumpled in anguish and rage, fiercely fighting to keep from saying the horrid words no matter how true. She reached for the doorknob.
"Say it! I mutilated your breast worse! I'm the reason why you won't leave the house! I'm the reason it's more difficult to breastfeed our son! Admit that you hate me!" he practically screamed, as if begging for the damnation.
So much anger and pain bottled up for the past month whirled up all at once that she spun around and finally exploded. "I hate you for doing this to me! I had no choice! You decided for me that temporary struggles with mastitis were worse than cutting out what was hardly left!"
The release of that terrible evil and guilt and pain to force him to bear it instead forced her to her knees. Clutching her hands over her mouth failed to take back the horrible words, and sobs consumed.
He silently knelt, with tears streaming down his face. "And I am so sorry it happened the way it did. But each week you'd get a worse infection. I was right there already, and to have opened you twice - "
Shaking her bowed head, she reached out and clutched his hand. "I know you had to." Burying her face in one hand to try to control the sobs she hiccuped, "I don't know why I hate you..."
"Because it's a normal reaction to feel betrayed. The swelling finally subsided, and we're seeing just how extensive even minimal excision affected it. Hate me, regret me, hit me...anything but indifference," he begged. "I don't want you trying so hard to deal with it by yourself that you shut down."
"All you see is a pregnancy, head wound and breast deformity!" She jerked her hands out of his, choking on the sobs.
Silence filled the pause, as if he understood the need for the anger to be released before healing could begin. Then quiet gentleness filled his voice. "I kiss and hold you because I love you. I haven't made love to you because you were injured and your migraines are finally going away. I will touch you sexually when you're ready for that."
Bowing her head, her face crumbled as sobs of sadness escaped, not even fully understanding these consuming, percolating emotions herself yet. But she stepped into his arms and buried her face against his chest, guiding his hand through the open nightdress to her bare breast and the other to her shorn hair and scars. Great sobs exploded, muffled by his chest, as she clung to him.
He sniffled and bowed his lips to her ear. "I love you and still believe you're the most beautiful woman. You're so strong - stronger than I'll ever be. We're going to get through this."
"Have you asked her, my lord, if she's frightened of white men?" Brigands voice carried up the stairs later that morning when she was bringing down Charles. "They left you alone because you were white, yet they were going to torture her for her heritage. She was scorned before, but she experienced violence of racism for the first time. Traveling back here, she remained glued to your side. Whenever we passed officers on the train or elsewhere, she kept her head down and tried to put you between her and them. My lord, she survived a trauma none of the rest of us have experienced."
Her hand tightened on the railing, with her feet anchored to the top step. Brigands had put a name to these new, strange emotions. Racism wasn't something new, but never had it dawned that there were some who would kill her because of it.
The step creaked as she shifted to hold Charles when he began to squirm.
Mark came around the corner and looked up. "Is that why you've pushed me away? You're afraid I'm ashamed of you? I've told you - "
Her eyes fell to the floor, feeling so naked and vulnerable but unable to find enough courage to move.
He made the laborious ascent up the stairs, one step at a time.
Taking a step back when he reached for her, she met his eyes full of confusion. "I am more worthless to them than trash. How many scars will it take for you to understand what they see?"
He came up the final step and gazed down as he stroked her cheek. "I see the scars, real and invisible. But you hung the moon and stars for me. I hear what they see, but never will I understand it. That is the beauty of love, Tanya. Just as you love me more because of my leg, I love you more because of your scars. You are so fiercely strong and intelligent and kind and beautiful."
Charles screeched in frustration of wanting to get down and play.
"Come." He took Charles to Brigands and then led her to the back of the house to their bedchamber.
"I'll be gentle, but this is long overdue." He yanked open her dress and took her deformity in his mouth.
A gasp of revulsion and pleasure broke the silence. But, it was the need for his love that made her bury her hands in his hair.
He guided her hand down to touch him through his clothes. "I desire you. The fact that I can show you pleasure within something you hate shows me how much you actually trust me. The fact that you would never let even a physician touch your breast, but you give yourself to me excites a primal need in me," he growled deep in his chest as he somehow made love to her breast.
She shuddered and clung to keep her knees from buckling. "Take me," she begged.
"After you reach the heavens without me touching between your thighs."
"What?" She panted and squirmed in raw desire as he pressed her up against the wall. "It's not possible."
"If I bathe you in enough love and trust, your mind will find pleasure and your body will follow. I give myself to you. Surrender to me, my lady love. I love you with my whole heart."
